:lol: Oui, bien sur, but Bordeaux with penne arrabiata? I think non. Besides, I think the only french wine I have on hand is white, and white wine definately doesn't go with arrabiata sauce. The chianti, on the other hand was perfect.
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:lol: Oui, bien sur, but Bordeaux with penne arrabiata? I think non. Besides, I think the only french wine I have on hand is white, and white wine definately doesn't go with arrabiata sauce. The chianti, on the other hand was perfect.
Mmm...Baudelaire, one of my favorites. This is a fun, light hearted poem! And mmm...wine, another favorite of mine. For now, a glass of homebrewed beer will do.
I was on my way to work but that poem almost persuaded me to get bladdered instead. The power of art! :D
I am glad you guys enjoy the poem! Thought we needed a break from the more 'serious' discussions that have been going on.
It is Friday, it is spring, the weather is promising...
Have a great day, everyone! :nod:
well I don't drink alchohol, it has never appealed to me, but to be drunk on virtue sounds intoxicating. Or totally smashed with kindness or love of humanity, with good works, I like that and try to live that. It really somehow does keep you numbed from all lot of the ugly mundane things in life. It is really simply to be passionate about what you are passionate about and drink it to the last drop, revel in it and be drunk.
very wise and beautiful really.
So now that it really is the right day to post a new poem (sorry Scher). I'll put this one up, since Rachel's comment above reminded me of it (though there is a danger of this turning into the "Poem Association Game" thread :)).
April 6
Quote:
I TASTE a liquor never brewed--
From Tankards scooped in Pearl--
Not all the vats upon the Rhine
Yield such an Alcohol!
Inebriate of Air--am I--
And Debauchee of Dew--
Reeling--thro endless summer days--
From inns of Molten Blue--
When "Landlords" turn the drunken Bee
Out of the Foxglove's door--
When Butterflies renounce their "drams"--
I shall but drink the more!
Till Seraphs swing their snowy Hats--
And Saints--to windows run--
To see the little Tippler
Leaning against the--Sun--
Emily Dickinson (1861)
If she wrote that today, I might think she was referring to alcohol free beer. :lol:
I've come to love Dickinson poems, but while I don't dislike this one, it wouldn't rank near my favorites. It seems awfully conventional for her. Plus the fact that it's alcohol free... ;)
I must reply because I don't think were giving this poem due justice. I've always been amazed by this poem because it displays her unique imagination:
By taking something common as alcohol and empowering it with almost(maybe even) divine qualities. First of all, the first stanza talks about something amazing and rare that it can only be comparable to alcohol made from the Rhine. And even with this, --Not all the Vats upon the Rhine yield such an Alcohol!. Read the first stanza and hear how the word Alcohol just echoes and expands out. This Alcohol must have some amazing power in it.
Then read the rest of the stanzas and see just what kind of power this Alcohol allows in her: To see the little Tippler Leaning against the--Sun--. As though from earth she has risen about 90 million miles and now is physically Leaning against the--Sun--. Just below the highest order of celestial beings, the Seraphs, whos function it is to be the caretakers of God's throne(Wikipedia) and above the Saints. Because of this alcohol, she is closer to physically reaching God than the Saints will ever be.
I'm telling you this definitely gets one WOW!
And there is so much more to the sounds and images in this poem, but since this is the thread for Poem of the Day...
It is one of my favorites.
Fair enough, ktd. I do like the last lines of the tippler leaning against the sun.
You say:
Well she's neither the first nor the last to endow alcohol with divine qualities. Goodness it must go back to the Romans and Greeks. You know, I pray to the god Bacchus every night with my two glasses of wine and for the powers it endows on me. ;)Quote:
By taking something common as alcohol and empowering it with almost(maybe even) divine qualities
Me too.Quote:
Originally Posted by Virgil
Yes, but she just somehow is able to give her words their own breaths and puts the image in just the most imaginitive context, especially in this poem, that I'm dumbfounded every time I read it.Quote:
Well she's neither the first nor the last to endow alcohol with divine qualities. Goodness it must go back to the Romans and Greeks.
LOL. Some people pray for world peace, then, there is you.Quote:
You know, I pray to the god Bacchus every night with my two glasses of wine and for the powers it endows on me.
Who says alcohol doesn't have supernatural powers? How dare you insult my god like that? I'll fight the lot of ya! You're my best mate you are, hic, my bestest mate in the whole world. Where's that ******* bottle?
Why is the world all gone sidewards.....?
:lol: :lol:Quote:
Originally Posted by Xamonas Chegwe
You know, Xam, since you don't participate in the Compliment the Above Person thread, I'm going to take this opportunity to say that the PAM is one the funniest person I've have ever met. Your wit just amazes me.
Sorry - not being witty - just blotto - hic. ;)
Gads, Scher! The moment I leave town, you throw a party?
You know, this is typical of the French, and thankyou, Petreach, for the original, though the English is actually perfect in announcing that most simple of directive... "You have a problem, or you don't have a problem, well then.. Go get drunk! And now, stupid person, you are bothering me if you are not drunk, therefore... Get drunk, be normal like the rest of France!". I know people that talk this way. Interesting to think that Baudelaire may have seeded 'haute couture' with this poem, else they'd have been too sober to design poodle haircuts, that weird 60s stuff, and of course, those strange French cars. :lol: Cheers, Baudee!Quote:
Get Drunk!
Always be drunk.
That's it!
The great imperative!
A Lecture Upon The Shadow - John Donne
Stand still, and I will read to thee
A lecture, Love, in Love's philosophy.
These three hours that we have spent,
Walking here, two shadows went
Along with us, which we ourselves produced.
But, now the sun is just above our head,
We do those shadows tread,
And to brave clearness all things are reduced.
So whilst our infant loves did grow,
Disguises did, and shadows, flow
From us and our cares ; but now 'tis not so.
That love hath not attain'd the highest degree,
Which is still diligent lest others see.
Except our loves at this noon stay,
We shall new shadows make the other way.
As the first were made to blind
Others, these which come behind
Will work upon ourselves, and blind our eyes.
If our loves faint, and westerwardly decline,
To me thou, falsely, thine
And I to thee mine actions shall disguise.
The morning shadows wear away,
But these grow longer all the day ;
But O ! love's day is short, if love decay.
Love is a growing, or full constant light,
And his short minute, after noon, is night.
I like this one :nod:
but I have a few questions what does
mean??Quote:
So whilst our infant loves did grow,
Disguises did, and shadows, flow
Also does it mean that the 'highest degree' of love only lasts a very little and then it spoilt by shadows??
I don't know what it is exactly about Donne's poetry but I really like it. The title 'lecture' sounds very sarcastic and have a very critical opinion of love (clever man! ;))
[QUOTE=Scheherazade]I don't know what it is exactly about Donne's poetry but I really like it.[/QUOTE ]
:nod: :nod: :nod: :nod:
And actually was thinking about it if you stand still at noon then you dont have a shadow at all-or rather you cant see it at all.Quote:
Stand still, and I will read to thee
A lecture, Love, in Love's philosophy.
I am confused by this poem because it seems contradictory. On the one hand, love is at its peak then wains as the shadow lengthens, and till a new burst of sun and new love, and on the other hand he writes:
Love is a growing, or full constant light,
And his short minute, after noon, is night.
I wonder if anyone else feels its contradictory or does he mean its taking a new form?
A Wallace Stevens poem:
Quote:
THIS SOLITUDE OF CATARACTS by Wallace Stevens
He never felt twice the same about the flecked river,
Which kept flowing and never the same way twice, flowing
Through many places, as if it stood still in one,
Fixed like a lake on which the wild ducks fluttered,
Ruffling its common reflections, thought-like Monadnocks.
There seemed to be an apostrophe that was not spoken.
There was so much that was real that was not real at all.
He wanted to feel the same way over and over.
He wanted the river to go on flowing the same way,
To keep on flowing. He wanted to walk beside it,
Under the buttonwoods, beneath a moon nailed fast.
He wanted his heart to stop beating and his mind to rest
In a permanent realization, without any wild ducks
Or mountains that were not mountains, just to know how it would be,
Just to know how it would feel, released from destruction,
To be a bronze man breathing under archaic lapis,
Without the oscillations of planetary pass-pass,
Breathing his bronzen breath at the azury center of time.
I'm not sure if anyone's looking at this thread any longer, so I'm going to bend the rules and post another.
This is a poem by Robert Penn Warren. He's mostly known as a novelist and literary critic, but he has published a significant amount of poetry too. I came across this poem a number of years back and its stuck with me.
Quote:
Mortal Limit by Robert Penn Warren
I saw the hawk ride updraft in the sunset over Wyoming.
It rose from coniferous darkness, past gray jags
Of mercilessness, past whiteness, into the gloaming
Of dream-spectral light above the lazy purity of snow-snags.
There--west--were the Tetons. Snow-peaks would soon be
In dark profile to break constellations. Beyond what height
Hangs now the black speck? Beyond what range will gold eyes see
New ranges rise to mark a last scrawl of light?
Or, having tasted that atmosphere's thinness, does it
Hang motionless in dying vision before
It knows it will accept the mortal limit,
And swing into the great circular downwardness that will restore
The breath of earth? Of rock? Of rot? Of other such
Items, and the darkness of whatever dream we clutch?
Nice Poem Virgil! I have one I can post so will have to do that Monday...
You're right Virg, I'd forgotten to look at this thread--and here you've been faithfully stocking it with excellent poems. I like the Stevens you posted earlier, especially the opening lines:
Not to mention I learned a new word from it, Monadnock (the definition of which contained the word "peneplain" which I also had to look up, so my vocabulary is just expanding a mile a minute :)). I'm still not sure why he capitalized "Monadnocks" though. I haven't read much Stevens. Does he often capitalize irregularly for some kind of emphasis? The end of the poem reminds me of the end to "Sailing to Byzantium" (only of course Stevens is set in the Bronze age rather than the Golden one ;)).Quote:
He never felt twice the same about the flecked river,
Which kept flowing and never the same way twice, flowing
Through many places, as if it stood still in one,
The "Mortal Limit" you posted today is good too. The language of it flows easily. The poet expresses himself in such a compelling way that he makes what is at heart a pretty old conceit seem absolutely fresh and original. I like the way he plays with words. He seems interested with unfolding multiple meanings in words in a way that I think is a little reminiscent of Shakespeare (though I don't think anyone can thrash as many meanings out of a word as Willy). You can see this in lines like these where he re-uses the word "range":
And obviously there's similar play in the title of the poem, written again in the eleventh line. His description of the eagle's sight as a "dying vision" before the "mortal limit" neatly suggests both the mortal limit of sight and the limit of death that mortals face. Nice choice. I really enjoyed this poem.Quote:
Hangs now the black speck? Beyond what range will gold eyes see
New ranges rise to mark a last scrawl of light?
I didn't realize monadnock was a word in its own right. I took it as a place name, which Stevens loves to do. Apparently it's both. Here from M-W:Quote:
Originally Posted by Petrarch's Love
So, it's a mountain in N.H. and a word for an isolated place. He does not like Dickinson capitalize for emphasis, at least I'm not aware of it.Quote:
monadnock
Main Entry: mo·nad·nock
Pronunciation: m&-'nad-"näk
Function: noun
Etymology: Mt. Monadnock, N.H.
: INSELBERG
This poem has always reminded me of the space program, and I'm sure there is a connection. It does have special meaning to me as an engineer of just to what heights man's ability can reach and yet an understandng, or perhaps a better word is testing, of our limits. If you notice it would be a perfect sonnet except for one thing. The length of the lines are way beyond pentameter, as if it's striving beyond allowed limits. And also, it's so American, the language, the setting, the striving and dream to go beyond.Quote:
The "Mortal Limit" you posted today is good too. The language of it flows easily. The poet expresses himself in such a compelling way that he makes what is at heart a pretty old conceit seem absolutely fresh and original. I like the way he plays with words. He seems interested with unfolding multiple meanings in words in a way that I think is a little reminiscent of Shakespeare (though I don't think anyone can thrash as many meanings out of a word as Willy). You can see this in lines like these where he re-uses the word "range":
And obviously there's similar play in the title of the poem, written again in the eleventh line. His description of the eagle's sight as a "dying vision" before the "mortal limit" neatly suggests both the mortal limit of sight and the limit of death that mortals face. Nice choice. I really enjoyed this poem
And now I get a geography lesson too. :) I thought it was a place name at first, but the plural threw me (and still seems strange, since it's the name of a single mountain and not a range). Also, I was lazy and only looked at the definition without clicking for the etymology when I looked it up in the OED, which defines "monadnock" this way:Quote:
So, it's a mountain in N.H. and a word for an isolated place. He does not like Dickinson capitalize for emphasis, at least I'm not aware of it.
The etymology link mentions the mountain in NH and gives a quote from Melville referring to "his great Monadnock hump" in Moby Dick. It's an interesting word, since it seems to have some sort of status between been a proper noun referring to a specific mountain, and a sort of adjective that can be both pluralized and applied to whales and such.Quote:
A hill, mountain, or ridge of erosion-resistant rock rising above a peneplain.
I hadn't thought of it in relation to the space program, but I think you've got a good point there. I had noticed the sonnet form (another thing that made me think of Shakespearean influence in his work). I like the long, irregular lines. You're right that it fits with the poem's central concern with "the mortal limit." It is a very American poem, and I think a very well done American poem.Quote:
This poem has always reminded me of the space program, and I'm sure there is a connection. It does have special meaning to me as an engineer of just to what heights man's ability can reach and yet an understandng, or perhaps a better word is testing, of our limits. If you notice it would be a perfect sonnet except for one thing. The length of the lines are way beyond pentameter, as if it's striving beyond allowed limits. And also, it's so American, the language, the setting, the striving and dream to go beyond.
I love Wallace Stevens poetry, but frankly I can't claim to understand him entirely. There is something in his language that I'm attracted to. I wish I could take a class on him.Quote:
Originally Posted by Petrarch's Love
I agree both about the appealing quality of the language and the not understanding entirely bit. I've never really looked at Stevens much. Part of that is no doubt due to the fact that the professors most responsible for my knowledge of 20th century poetry were not at all interested in American lit. (one of them, being Irish, hardly got to anyone apart from Yeats :lol:). I agree it would be intersting to take a class that examined Stevens' work. Now you've got me thinking about looking into sitting in on a class on American poetry next year. We've got a scholar here who's supposed to be pretty good in the field and since I'll be done with official coursework this term (:banana: :banana: :banana: ) I could sit in on it just for the sake of the knowledge (if I ever do it I'll promise to share my notes with you ;)).
Some thought on Donne's poem:
I think Donne is reflecting on the changing nature of our confidence and openness in the course of love. When we first love, we seek to impress and may give a false image of ourselves, in order to win another's heart:
<So whilst our infant loves did grow,
Disguises did, and shadows, flow
From us and our cares ; but now 'tis not so.>
When sufficient time has passed, our concerns are shared, we trust in the love of each other, and our shadows therefore become one. Furthermore, in the early years of love, we may portray a nonchalant and casual attitude to the one we love, when in front of peers, as we do not wish to give the impression of being dependent and besotted, especially whilst the future of one's love is so uncertain. But once time has elapsed, these shadows disappear.
<That love hath not attain'd the highest degree,
Which is still diligent lest others see.>
If you cannot be open to everyone about your love, then your love still has some way to grow, to mature.
The rest of the poem, I think, talks about the need to focus on what you have and where you are going. Once you reach that point at which your love is constant, strong, perfect, this isn't the end of the road, but rather that spot on the summit with the greatest viewpoint. Love is maintained through focus.
AP
5/14
Penelope
In the pathway of the sun,
In the footsteps of the breeze,
Where the world and sky are one,
He shall ride the silver seas,
He shall cut the glittering wave.
I shall sit at home, and rock;
Rise, to heed a neighbour's knock;
Brew my tea, and snip my thread;
Bleach the linen for my bed.
They will call him brave.
~Dorothy Parker
Interesting. I like it but I'm not sure the rhyme scheme works with wave and brave so far apart.
The poem should have some indents that the forum did not like (?).
So, imagine an indent before the second and fourth lines, and then a double indent at the fifth and last line. Does that help any?
May 15th 2006
Bond and Free
By Robert Frost
Love has earth to which she clings
With hills and circling arms about--
Wall within wall to shut fear out.
But Thought has need of no such things,
For Thought has a pair of dauntless wings.
On snow and sand and turf, I see
Where Love has left a printed trace
With straining in the world's embrace.
And such is Love and glad to be.
But Thought has shaken his ankles free.
Thought cleaves the interstellar gloom
And sits in Sirius' disc all night,
Till day makes him retrace his flight,
With smell of burning on every plume,
Back past the sun to an earthly room.
His gains in heaven are what they are.
Yet some say Love by being thrall
And simply staying possesses all
In several beauty that Thought fares far
To find fused in another star.
This poem is especially for Pensive. ;)
This makes me, and easily.
Wall within wall to shut fear out.
Yet some say Love by being thrall
And simply staying possesses all
Thanks, RJbibliophil.
Thanks RJ. Another Frost poem, and one I haven't read in a long while. I like this one. I've been studying all day for a big project coming up, but I think I'll take a break now from looking for beauty "fused in another star" and call the folks at home.:)
I always thought I knew what 'thrall' mean't, but I took the time to look it up anyway.
thrall (thrôl)
n.
One, such as a slave or serf, who is held in bondage.
One who is intellectually or morally enslaved.
Servitude; bondage: “a people in thrall to the miracles of commerce” (Lewis H. Lapham).
tr.v. Archaic., thralled, thrall·ing, thralls.
To enslave.
[Middle English, from Old English thrǣl, from Old Norse thrǣll.]
thrall'dom or thral'dom n.
Frost is so easy to read, his message comes across clear as silk, perfectly laid out, while leaving a barely discernible trace of something else in the air, and in case we think we're so sure. I have to put Frost in my favourites category. Why does it make me think of the 'Ex-Queen' poem, in that thread, I am wondering?
Frost seems simple if one considers them, but often there is a deeper meaning, or a meaning that might be there if only one could find it.
Can't stand Frost myself I'm afraid.
Mr. Grumpledump's Song
Everything's wrong,
Days are too long,
Sunshine's too hot,
Wind is too strong.
Clouds are too fluffy,
Grass is too green,
Ground is too dusty,
Sheets are too clean.
Stars are too twinkly,
Moon is too high,
Water's too drippy,
Sand is too dry.
Rocks are too heavy,
Feathers too light,
Kids are too noisy,
Shoes are too tight.
Folks are too happy,
Singin' their songs.
Why can't they see it?
Everything's wrong!
-Shel Silverstein
I can't quite put my finger on it, seems something is wrong.Quote:
Originally Posted by Scheherazade
Sorry - got to run; lunch over- but promised Rachel I'd post this somewhere and no time to remember how to post thread. Please leave it on!
Be Kind
we are always asked
to understand the other person's
viewpoint
no matter how
out-dated
foolish or
obnoxious.
one is asked
to view
their total error
their life-waste
with
kindliness,
especially if they are
aged.
but age is the total of
our doing.
they have aged
badly
because they have
lived
out of focus,
they have refused to
see.
not their fault?
whose fault?
mine?
I am asked to hide
my viewpoint
from them
for fear of their
fear.
age is no crime
but the shame
of a deliberately
wasted
life
among so many
deliberately
wasted
lives
is.
Charles Bukowski